I thought their offense could overcome that. As Gerry was about to respond, the drunk, all dressed in leather like a biker, popped his head up and saw me across the room. One beer was all I was going to stay for.
The guy, I don’t even remember his name, came at me in a drunken rage, pulling a switchblade. I tried to sidestep his first stab and did so, but the second one caught me in the sports jacket, tearing a hole right through it. As he withdrew the knife, I hit him with a right cross. It sent him sprawling toward the floor. Two of the other regulars grabbed him and held him, taking his knife. The cops showed up a few minutes later and took him away, Artie told me. By then I’d already gone to see my client, jacket on.
I never had the jacket fixed. In fact, if a client asks about the hole, I tell them the story.
***
It was nearly five in the morning when both detectives stepped through the screen door. Blanchett headed back to the car, while Daniels turned to shake Jen’s hand. Probably thanking her for her help. That surprised me, the smile on Daniels’s face. Did she care what Jen thought, about the information she’d given? She didn’t act that way with me, didn’t seem to care. She only wanted answers to the questions, and didn’t get flustered when I didn’t give them.
I was getting caught up in appearances, thinking about visual clues that I couldn’t be sure about. Lack of sleep was getting to me. I was thinking too much. When the detectives pulled away, their brake lights disappearing two blocks down the street, I finally stepped out of my car and approached the front door. I rang the bell, hoping that Jen hadn’t gone back to bed.
She answered, tears in her eyes and a tissue clutched in her hand. Her cheeks were red, and she was breathing deeply. We stood in silence, the screen door a barrier between us. A bird was singing somewhere, starting to wake up, and the realization that I wouldn’t get home until after sunup hit me. I tried to fight exhaustion but yawned. “I thought you’d wait until later this morning,” she said, finally.
I said, “I wanted to get here before the police did.”
“Too late.”
“I saw.”
Through the door I could hear music playing. Something soft, a piano background, violins, sweeping music. It was a song I didn’t recognize, and it was too soft for me to hear who was singing. Jen didn’t offer to open the door.
“What are you listening to?” I asked.
“Lou Reed. It’s called ‘Perfect Day.’ ” She wiped her eyes with the crumpled tissue. “Rex played it in his car our first date. We played it again our wedding night. It’s our song.”
“He’s not here, is he?”
“No.” Jen started to cry again. Between the tears, she said, “What happened tonight? What happened?”
“Can I come in? Let’s talk. Please, I want to help.” Help with what, I didn’t know.
She pushed the door open, allowing me to step inside. The house smelled like steam. I couldn’t exactly explain it, but it was something out of my childhood, the way my home always smelled when my mother made tea or soup. The house looked nothing like my home when I was a kid, but for a moment I was transported. Definitely needed to get some sleep.
Shaking my head, I looked around. The room Jen led me to was spare, with two chairs, a TV, a coffee table with tabloid magazines spread out over it, and a small love seat. In one corner was a bookcase filled with CDs. A small lamp stood between that and an end table with a CD player on it. The Lou Reed song ended, and Etta James came on.
“It’s the CD we gave out as a table gift at our wedding,” Jen said, before I could ask. “Sit. Do you want a drink?”
I shook my head.
“Please. I need one, and I don’t want to drink alone.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Scotch and soda?”
The scotch would knock me out, go right to my head. I said yes anyway.
Jen went through a door to what I assumed was the kitchen and I heard glasses rattle around.
The room, the house still smelled. My mind traveled back to the night my father walked out on my mother and me. He never gave a reason, never left a note. My mother said he woke up in the middle of the night and left. He didn’t come back. She probably kept something from me that night; he must have said something to her. When my sister and I woke up she was sitting on the couch, crying.
Jen came back with the drinks and placed one in front of me. The taste was bitter and made me cringe. Not a big scotch drinker, it really didn’t go down smooth.
“What did the police tell you?”
She took almost half the drink in her mouth. Swallowed and didn’t even flinch. “They asked if I knew where Rex was. They asked a lot of questions. Said he was wanted for questioning. They wouldn’t say if he was all right. Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. Did he call here, did you hear from him?” Etta James ended. Sam Cooke now, “We’re Having a Party.”
“What happened?” Jen said. “You’re acting like the police. I hired you. I want to know what happened. I asked them the same thing and they wouldn’t tell me. I don’t know what’s going on. My God, my stomach is in knots.”
She finished off her drink. I told her what she wanted to know. By the time I was done, she was sobbing again. Now my stomach was in knots. Still couldn’t clear the smell from my nostrils. The feeling of déjà vu.
I drank my scotch, let her cry. Over her shoulder was a window, Venetian blinds closed. There was a hint of light against the blinds. The sun was coming up.
“He called,” she said. “Just said he had to go away for a while, but he’d be back. He’s done this a few times before.”
“He has?”
“It’s the reason I came to you in the first place. Sometimes he goes to work, calls me, and tells me he has to go away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t think it was too important.” Her crying had slowed. “Tonight. When he called tonight, I was mad. I swore at him. He told me he couldn’t talk long, hung up on me. Bastard.”
“Did you tell the police he called?”
No tissue now, she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “No. They wouldn’t tell me what happened. They wouldn’t tell me anything. So I didn’t tell them.”
“Mrs. Hanover, your husband murdered someone.” She took a deep breath. “No. He didn’t.”
The music changed again. Sam Cooke to Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic.”
“My husband didn’t kill anyone.”
“Mrs. Hanover—Jen—I took pictures of him.”
“You have him on camera? Actually murdering someone?”
“I have him with the body.”
“You didn’t see him kill anyone?”
“No.”
Jen nodded. “I don’t believe Rex could ever kill anyone.”
“You should have told the police he called. They need to find him. Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“You should have told them.”
“I don’t want the police to find him.” I downed the last of my scotch.
“I want you to find him,” she said. “Mrs. Hanover. Please.”
“Find him, Mr. Donne. Bring him home to me. Once you find him, we’ll both see that he’s not a murderer.